


new day new tomorrow new dream

by ninemoons42



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Human, Community: trope_bingo, Dress Up, F/F, Genderswap, Holiday, Holidays, Kimono, snowstorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:58:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42





	new day new tomorrow new dream

title: new day new tomorrow new dream  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
word count: approx. 1540  
fandom: X-Men: First Class  
characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr, Edie Lehnsherr  
rating: PG  
notes: Written for [](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**trope_bingo**](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/). Prompt: holiday. My card is [here](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/215352.html).  
The holiday being observed here is 成人の日 or [Seijin no Hi](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coming_of_Age_Day), a Japanese holiday that falls on the second Monday in January.  
Reference for the dragon kimono: [here](http://tmblr.co/ZIJNMxcS3gKT), though the outermost layer is not used. Reference for the phoenix kimono: [here](http://tmblr.co/ZIJNMxcS3YAB), though more purple than burgundy.

  
The muffled tranquility of the snowbound morning is broken by another shout of laughter: a riotous note that slashes through the winter’s cold. Ordinarily, a sound like that would compel Erika to look out and investigate, because there are still so many things that she wants to learn about Tokyo, never mind that she’s been here for the better part of ten years now. Where are all the ramen carts? How many postage-stamp-sized playgrounds are in this neighborhood alone, where it seems that there is a child under ten living in every third house? Who owns the irascible, oversized moggie that had been washing its paws outside her window yesterday afternoon?

Today, however, on the second Monday of January, 2013, she sets those questions aside with a smile.

Something far more interesting is about to take place within the walls of this little space that she shares with her mother, Edie, and for this Erika wants to be riveted, wants to be pinned in place.

They’ve heaped the clean floor with the extra set of straw mats to keep out the cold, and today the neutral hues, trimmed here and there with touches of plain pastel green, are the backdrop for brilliant scarlet and purple and black and gold.

As Erika gets to her feet she passes her reflection in a mirror. Strange to be half-dressed like this, pristine white socks and all, and waiting for the rest of the layers. Self-consciously she touches the comb holding the heavy twist of her hair in place: a heavy half-circle of lacquered wood, silver bamboo leaves against dark gray. It’s a far cry from her usual braid; she almost wants to take the comb out and put her hair back into its usual plaits.

“Please don’t do that,” Charlotte says as she comes back from the direction of the bathroom.

“Are you reading my mind?” Erika asks, looking in the mirror to look at her friend.

“I can’t do that, but I don’t need to.”

“Don’t you dare take that comb out, Erika,” Edie says a moment later. “If you have any plans of getting out of that hairstyle, at least wait until I’ve taken photos of you in the completed outfit.”

“Your mom’s right. Braids later,” Charlotte offers in a sort of compromise. “After we’ve been to the ceremony. Please?”

Erika will do just about anything to make Charlotte smile: it was the truth when they met ten years ago and it’s the truth now. Still, she makes faces at the other two. “Okay,” she mock-grumbles, and that gets her an affectionate kiss from her mother, and a warm light of approval in Charlotte’s eyes.

“Great. Now, dressing up,” Charlotte says. Erika watches her survey the bright colors spread out at her feet, watches her tap a finger against her lips, looking thoughtful. “I think I’ll get you dressed first, Erika.”

“And here I was thinking that all the dancing and all the fancy costumes would have gotten you used to this kind of finery,” Erika laughs. “Especially these. They’re all even in your favorite colors.”

“Oh hush,” Charlotte laughs. “Let’s not get into that discussion again. As for the colors - well.” Her smile becomes more devilish. “Surely I should be allowed to indulge myself on a day when that is precisely what everyone my age does. I may never get another chance to dress you up like this.”

“I’m not a doll for you to play with,” Erika snipes, affectionately, as she walks into the center of the room and holds her hands out obediently at shoulder-height.

“You’re not?” Edie says, beating Charlotte to the draw. “Hmm. I feel like I’ve missed one of the joys of being a mother.”

“Nyah,” Erika says, sticking out her tongue.

“Oh, yes, very mature, and here I thought you were taking being twenty years old very seriously!” Edie is all but sparkling, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. The camera in her hands remains steady, however, and Erika can hear the click-click-click of the shutter going off.

“Maybe after the ceremony we’ll be very serious and mature,” Charlotte offers.

As Erika watches, Charlotte gets to her feet, holding out a long length of plain white cloth. She wraps that around Erika’s waist, nimble fingers tying it into place; over that goes a dark red sash, which Charlotte secures with a flat knot, snug against Erika’s ribs. “Too tight?”

“No,” Erika says.

“Good. Under-robe, please, Edie,” Charlotte says, and there’s a quiet rustling. Tiny tie-dyed dots in red on white, everywhere except at the stiff collar and the edges of the sleeves. The hems just miss Erika’s ankles by about an inch. “Maybe this might be easier than I thought.”

“How so?” Erika asks.

“You’re tall enough that I don’t actually have to double up the fabric at your waist,” Charlotte murmurs. “So, fewer things to tie into place, less discomfort for you.”

“Lucky me.”

Charlotte grins, bright fierce blue in pale skin spackled with dark freckles. “Okay, here’s the hard part,” she says after a moment of fiddling with the hanging sleeves. “Ready to wear the heavy thing?”

“If I must,” Erika says, serious as she can be - but she tips a wink at the camera in her mother’s hands.

“Oof,” Charlotte says as she picks up the scarlet robes. “Hands out to your sides again. Bend your knees a little, Erika, let me get this over your shoulders - ”

The scarlet kimono is made out of heavy silk, and if Erika squints, she can actually pick out the motif that looks like it’s been embossed: a dragon, rendered in copper and rust and black. As Charlotte pulls various panels and sections into place the dragon seems to be winding itself around Erika, coiling up from her feet; its head, after Charlotte ties everything into place, seems to be neatly placed right at her left hip.

Scarlet sleeves very nearly trailing to the floor.

“Mmm, that’s lovely,” Charlotte mutters as she mops the sweat from her brow. “Just a little more and then you can sit down or something, all right?”

“All right,” Erika says, and then she watches as Charlotte ties the matching obi on: it’s a few shades darker than the kimono, and it pulls the entire outfit together beautifully.

Edie sniffles, and takes another photograph. “Oh, Erika. You look so wonderful.”

“I wish Papa was here.”

“Me too.”

“All done,” Charlotte says, briskly. “I think you had better get out of the way, Erika. When I do this for myself I tend to - well. Take up a lot of space.”

Erika smirks, and perches in Edie’s favorite armchair, and folds her hands in her lap.

Charlotte’s lips move as she dresses herself, and it looks like her hands are flying, because she’s moving so quickly, so fluidly: it’s like she’s already dancing. An additional sash or two, extra lengths of cloth to tuck away, a different under-robe; Edie holds the wine-dark purple robe up for her and Erika blinks at the motif: a scatter of white flowers trailing behind a large phoenix in thread-of-gold.

“Did you pick the motifs out on purpose? I’m a dragon, you’re a phoenix?”

“Yes,” Charlotte says, serene and knowing as she knots her obi, gold to match the phoenix’s plumage.

And that is just how things should be, and Erika smiles, admiring Charlotte in her finery.

*

Erika holds on tightly to Charlotte as they pick their way through the snow.

There are so many other colors in the street: men in blue and black and gray, a dash of someone in bright pink sleeves, a thousand shades of red peeking out from around overcoats and underneath fur stoles.

The dark ruffled mass of Charlotte’s hair, swept back roughly into a loose twist low on the nape of her neck, is dotted here and there with white snowflakes.

Erika looks over her shoulder, once, and smiles in amusement to see the trail of footprints they’re leaving behind. “Are your toes supposed to be turned in like that?”

“I’m used to walking that way, when I’m dressed like this.”

“So I’m doing things wrong?” Erika doesn’t falter in her careful stride, however.

“I don’t want you to change a damn thing.”

Erika stops, then, and stares at Charlotte’s smile.

The crowds have vanished, somehow: they are standing across the street from a shrine entrance. The soaring red-and-black structure, one of the columns wound around with new rope, is shrouded in a covering of newly fallen snow.

There is no one to see the two of them looking into each other’s eyes, no one to notice that they are still holding hands.

“I - Charlotte,” Erika begins. The words are stuck in her throat, and she has to try and catch her breath around them. She wants to say them, get them out, make them _real_. “I feel - ”

“I know, Erika,” Charlotte says. “I know. And - I feel the same. I always have. I was just trying to show you instead of trying to tell you.”

Erika doesn’t remember the half-flying/half-falling step forward. All she remembers is the flame that is Charlotte, safe in her arms, warming her up. All she remembers is wanting to keep that flame close.  



End file.
